


I'll Be Here

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anger, Angst, Bad Humor, Fluff, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Post Reichenbach, Reunion, Sherlock - Freeform, Three Years Later
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-07
Updated: 2013-08-11
Packaged: 2017-12-22 16:31:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,954
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/915461
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"And John? I love you." Sherlock said, and threw the phone onto the roof. He jumped, falling like a stone into the sidewalk below. It’s now three years later.<br/>R&R</p><p>WARNING</p><p>I am not currently updating this story, as I am busy. I am not abandoning it, but if you dislike WIP's then I would not recommend reading it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Ghost

**Author's Note:**

> This will be a multi-chapter story, posted at intervals, and going through Sherlock's return to John's life and dealing with what he left behind...  
> Enjoy :)
> 
> Music: Transatlanticism ~ Death Cab For Cutie

John isn't sure why Sherlock would decide to torment him even after death. 

He hadn't ever thought of him as a malicious character; blunt, oblivious, and rude, yes, but that was just _Sherlock_. But this, _this_ , was malicious. This was something someone did make sure John would be miserable for the rest of his days. Because Sherlock had said, _I love you_ to John, moments before he had jumped to his death. He had given John all he had ever wanted for a precious moment, before ripping it away and beyond. And so now he was gone and he had left John with an insatiable hole in his heart were Sherlock had always belonged, where Sherlock should have been, _if only_ he'd been braver, _if only_ he had _known_.

Which was why John was still sitting in his old apartment from pre-Sherlock era, gripping a cup of tea, living on a sad army pension, depressed and wearing the a piece of clothing he would never have worn before... The fall. He was wearing a scarf. It wasn't the exact same one Sherlock had had (navy blue, cashmere). This newer version was almost identical, except for the shorter length. He hadn't been out in maybe three days, and he wouldn't be out for several others he decided, because these were darker days amongst the blackness of the past three years; these were the days leading up the Sherlock's death. 

A year ago it would have been the days leading up to when Sherlock had faked his death. Two years ago it would have been the days leading up to Sherlock's departure. But since then he had come to terms with it; Sherlock was dead, and he had loved John. He had loved John till the end of his life. John wanted to love Sherlock for the rest of his own.

Suicide had never really been a danger. Sure, he had tried on several occasions, but in the end, something in him couldn't pull the trigger, something in him couldn't make the last few steps over the edge of St. Bart's. Which made him wonder how, in all his logic and superiority, Sherlock could have done it. Perhaps John was just a coward. 

After every one of these suicide attempts there'd be a ring at the door a few minutes to a few hours later and Mycroft would be there, in his airy facade, to "talk" with him, offer him compensation, offer him a job. And each time he'd get a door in his face. So John had never really forgiven Mycroft for giving up Sherlock's life story. He'd never forgiven himself for doubting Sherlock either.

There's a knock on the door, ringing out into the dark apartment. John doesn't want to get up to see Lestrade's worried face or Mrs. Hudson's biscuits or least of all Mycroft and his umbrella. But he does, because these are the only people he has left, as sad as that thought is.

As he gets up the old chair creaks; it's the only piece of 221B in the flat, his old favorite chair. Sometimes, if he turns on the lights and closes his eyes he can pretend he's writing up their next case, Sherlock behind him staring into his microscope or leaning over his shoulder to comment about the tacky titles and clichés.

He swings the door open, intent on telling whoever is there to politely sod off, and is confronted by six feet of cheekbones and Belfast and curls.

John almost faints, almost screams, and then decides that he's finally done it, he's finally insane.

"Oh _god_." he moans, bringing up his hands to cover his face. "That's it, I'm mad. I've finally gone mad..."

"John," the familiar voice breathes, and it sounds so _real_ , so _Sherlock_ that John can feel tears welling up in his eyes. His imagination must be better than he gives it credit for. "John you're not insane. I..."

Strong, long fingered hands grip his arms and take his hands off his face. Sherlock—vision-Sherlock—is looming over him, curls just brushing over his eyebrows, eyes as clear and full of colors as ever. His breath is mingling with Sherlock's, his hands have unconsciously moved to grip Sherlock's with a sad sort of desperation. 

"Are you real?" John whispers, and he sounds to himself like a small child, confronting a fairy by the window.   
He can feel his heart thudding in his chest; he's sure it will stop if Sherlock turns to smoke in his hands.

Sherlock's face has an expression on that John had never seen him wear in life; something like remorse and pain and something else entirely.

"I though that would be obvious." Sherlock breathes, and his voice sounds so _lost_ , nothing like it had before, and yet it still so _wonderful_ , low and vibrating.

Something like a hysterical giggle falls from John's lips and his hands drop for Sherlock's. He doesn't even feel the rush of anger before its flying a Sherlock's sharp cheekbones and then every spins and fades away. He can feel the ghost of strong arms a moment before he falls over the edge of his consciousness.


	2. Waking Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A short chapter... Not much happens.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Music: Almost Lover ~ A Fine Frenzy

The world swims into focus slowly and then all at once, a blur of the grays of his dark flat and then the sharp features of his dead... best friend. They hadn't been lovers. They'd never been given the chance.

There's a bright contrast of red blood on the side of his face with his pale skin, dark curls. The shock of seeing this face affects him differently than shock normally does; it grips him still and makes it so its hard to breathe. It's only when cold hands grip his sweater covered arms and give a little shake that he realizes he'd been gasping, unable to take in air.

Sherlock lets him go and sits back into John's armchair. It had been dragged out of its usual place, now only inches from John's bed where he must have been carried after... _after_...

"Oh _god,_ " he says for the second time. The silence soon envelopes the little outburst, hanging in the air while the two ex-flat mates seem to try and stare at anything other than each other, before Sherlock decides to speak.

"John, I—"

"You _bloody bastard,_ " John explodes, about to have another go at Sherlock before the hands clamp down on his arms again. "You _can't just_ , after _three bloody years_ , oh _god three years..._ " 

The anger in him seems to sink and drain out of him in the tears welling up in his eyes. He's already small but now he's absolutely minuscule, a crumpled man in an equally crumpled sweater, tired of the whole entire world. When the inevitable tears come they don't seem to ever stop, and John _never_ cries like this in front of _anyone_ but now he's falling apart all over again for entirely the opposite reason.

It takes a moment for John's mind to acknowledge the soft curls brushing against his right ear, the chin fitted onto his shoulder, the rough Belfast coat wrapped all around him and that damned scarf pressed up against his face. His body's been dragged into the armchair, completely enveloped by Sherlock who's so _warm_ and comforting and _very alive._

When John's mind acknowledges the tremor of tears that aren't his, his reaction is to just sob harder because _Sherlock_ never cried, _Sherlock_ never held him like he was afraid he'd disappear, and yet... Sherlock never loved anyone either. 

They stay that way long after all the tears have dried and they might just have drifted off for a while too, because its been three years since John's felt this man and its been a lifetime since Sherlock has held _anyone_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading.  
> Next chapter...  
> Oh and please leave feedback :)


	3. Home Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which John returns to 221B...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Music: Coming Home ~ J. Cole ft. Skyler Grey

A knock at the door wakes the two of them, wrapped up and entangled like they were lovers (were they?) falling over in John's small bed and tumbling onto the cold floor. Mrs. Hudson's cheery voice floats through the door and John thinks that this is the most traffic his flat has had in... Three years.  
"John? I brought you some biscuits..."

Sherlock is on his feet first, towing John up along with him. John's isn't sure what to feel at the moment; anger, confusion, love, but like always his face is a specimen under Sherlock's microscope.

"I'll explain everything later," he murmurs, curly hair ruffled, straightening his great coat.

John nods because he doesn't know what else to do, and then again, firmer, because Sherlock will explain why the hell he would leave him for three years, fake his own _death_ , and then they would get to that last part. The _I love you goodbye John_ part.

He straightens his sweater as Sherlock walks towards the door, John right behind him, wondering how Mrs. Hudson will react to Sherlock' return, praying she doesn't faint or have a heart attack right there. The door swings open, and then she's there, smiling and handing Sherlock the biscuits, going to embrace John and asking how their doing. A complete non-reaction.

"You _knew_ he was alive?" John demands, stopping all the greetings short.

"Well—" Mrs. Hudson starts but Sherlock cuts her off, his voice calm.

"I revealed myself to everyone else before hand. I thought it would make it easier for you, not having to deal with the others reactions."

"What would have been _easier_ —" John bites back his anger. It had been what Sherlock had thought best. "Okay," he breathes, calming down. "What are we going to do now,"

Sherlock seemed to straighten up a bit, holding open the door. "Well first we're going to move back into 221B right now. I trust that the cab is waiting?"

Mrs. Hudson nods. "I got one of those large cabbies, in case John wants to take all his things right now."

So Mrs. Hudson had not only known Sherlock was alive before John, she had known long enough for them to plot this as well. Typical.

John sighs in resignation. "I'll prepare a bag. You two head down."

He packs his entire wardrobe (which wasn't much at all), toiletries, and grabbed his phone. Halfway to the door he stops, turns back, and tucks his gun into the back of his waist band.

 

********************

"Sherlock, we're going to talk now." 

John is sitting in his favorite armchair, cup of tea in his hands, right across from Sherlock who has his hands steepled to his lips. The moment was surreal; Mrs. Hudson had kept 221B exactly as it had been, just a bit dustier and lacking some of Sherlock's more gruesome specimens. 

John could almost trick himself into thinking that nothing had happened, that they had just solved a case and that now they were recuperating, just back from the war zone of modern London.

But something had happened. John was a different man than he had been when he had last been here, the same was true for Sherlock. And now he wanted to know why, _why_ they had needed to change, what had it all been for?

"We need to talk now." he repeats, and Sherlock's crystal eyes zero in on him like lasers.

"Indeed." he replies demurely. Silence. "What do you want to know?"

This makes John pause. "Why'd you jump?" he asks eventually, unconsciously gripping the tea mug tighter. It's still hard to mention, even if Sherlock's alive. For months after his death John had even had an issue with even thinking his name. "Why did you leave for _three years?_ "

Sherlock's answer is prompt, and to anyone who didn't know him well it would have sounded almost blasé. To John's standards it was the equivalent of heartfelt emotion. "Moriarty had assassins targeting you, Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade. He wanted me to complete his fairy tale, my great fall, by taking my own life after being discredited. It was either jump... or you all would have died."

There's a thud that breaks the silence after this statement. It's John's mug, set heavily down on the desk because his hands are shaking and it's not from PTSD. John had never (and now he wonders why he hadn't) imagined that something like _this_ had been the reason Sherlock had jumped, that _Sherlock_ of all people had been the self-sacrificing hero.

_Don't make people into heroes, John. Heroes don't exist and if they did, I wouldn't be one of them._

"Sherlock..." John breathes, and his voice sounds broken and remorseful. "I never thought, I..." his voice gets stuck in his throat. "Thank you." he manages to choke out.

Sherlock continues, hands now laced in his lap, fidgeting uncharacteristically, like he's nervous. "The last three years have been a precaution. Despite the fact that it seems I have remained dead here," he glances at John quickly. "my trick was quickly found out by Moriarty's web. I've been dismantling this old connections one by one with the help of _Mycroft_ ," his face twists as if he's tasted something sour. "who was also... Keeping tabs on you."

John swallows, remembering all the visits after each suicide attempt, remembering wondering why he didn't just _give up_. It's as if Sherlock can read his mind. He gets up from the desk, moving to crouch in front of John, pale hands gripping his laced, shaking hands.

"I'm sorry," and his voice cracks, imperceptibly. "I'm so sorry. I had no idea my death would affect you so. I..." Sherlock breathes out, as if trying to calm himself. "I understand if you do not wish to be in my company anymore. But I meant what I said on that rooftop John. It still holds true."

John is sure he looks like a deer caught in headlights; the mix of strong emotions is starting to make him feel dizzy, and if he faints again that would just be too embarrassing. He only realizes that he hasn't answered Sherlock's unasked question until he sees the detectives face fall, eyebrows tense and eyes so _sad_ looking, resigned.

"I.." John starts, grasping for words. "Of _course_ you can stay you complete idiot! I've just moved in with you, _again_ , so isn't it obvious?"

For a moment Sherlock seems stunned, maybe relieved, and then mildy affronted. John decides, in a fit of madness he guesses, that the proper way to wipe the expression of his face is to pull him in and kiss him till they're both breathless. It works.  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please leave feedback :)
> 
> I'm really not sure how long this will be
> 
> TBC I guess...


	4. Play The Game

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here comes the story book villain....

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Music: Iridescent ~ Linkin Park

Sherlock's return to John's life is made public the very next day, as he makes an official statement to the press, and his name is covering headlines everywhere once more. It's a relief to John as much as it is an annoyance; he had never once lost faith in the detectives genius, and yet it had taken months after his faked death for actual proof of Moriarty's existence to surface in the media. Sherlock's good name had been clearing up for two years (not that it had mattered to John much, he was still _dead_ ), his return to the world was the final word. Sherlock Holmes was a genius of geniuses, and London had fallen victim to Jim Moriarty's game of mental warfare.

Now all John has to worry about is the _attention_. If Sherlock and he had been famous beforehand, it was nothing compared to how famous they were now. It was a miracle press never went to 221B. Behind those doors, John can almost imagine everything was normal again. 

" _Sherlock_ ," John calls, trying to swallow down bile as he slams shut the fridge. "I don't—how the _hell_ did you get body parts into the fridge so fast its been a bloody _week._ "

" _It's an experiment._ " Sherlock answers from the other room, voice clipped over the sound of him torturing his violin, and it just makes John's irritation grow.

"Well," John swallows, stepping into the living room. "Your experiment is in the milk."

 

****

 

And so it progresses, bodies in the fridge, beakers all over the dining table, late night concerts on the violin. A wordless gift is given two days after his return, a small silver laptop Sherlock drops on John's lap as he walks on to the music stand by the window. His blog starts up again (13000 hits a day now) and Sherlock even gets a case from a shaky Lestrade, who had been demoted and then reinstated as DI in the three years Sherlock had been gone.

The case turns out to be only a three (John carrying around an undressed Sherlock via the computer) and its solved in time for lunch. In all the only difference is the small little details; Sherlock leaning on his shoulder to read the entry he's typing up, the occasional miraculous trip to Tesco's for milk. Sometimes there are dreamy lullabies floating down the hall after a nightmare, sometimes a kiss or two between cases. John no longer sleeps alone.

He'll never see Sherlock's fake death as good thing, but things are good now. Things are more than good.

 

****************

 

This is not good at all.

The silence in Scotland Yard is tangible, almost as tangible as the complete and utter shock in the air. He's aware of everybody, _everybody_ staring, aware of the choking noises Donovan and Anderson are making, and the deer-in-headlights look on Lestrade's face. John does his best to stare everybody down one by ones, slowly people return to milling around and tapping away at their computers, whispering away. Sherlock is wearing his full-on _you are all massive idiots_ expression, probably about to unearth everybody's secrets from a glance.

Lestrade is struggling to speak from shock. "Y-you... you two... You two are..."

"The freak is sleeping with someone!" Donovan bursts out, half bent over with Anderson who's. lost in a fit of giggles.

Everybody is staring again.

Sherlock breathes in deeply and John knows he's about to mouth off the world. "Quite right, Donovan I am, as you would..."

John knows that this was probably a long time coming. Sherlock and he had been... Together for two months now, but by some unspoken agreement rarely showed and outward affection (the press had enough to talk about). And then, upon arriving late to Scotland Yard, Sherlock had walked over, kissed John quickly on the lips, and had turned to face a shocked office. John was still reeling.

In a way it's a relief though, to have the secret out. They're at the crime scene now, just solving another case.

John walks up to Sherlock, tugging at his sleeve. "Why'd you do it, this morning?"

From the angle they're walking at John can't see his face, only the flashing of police lights bouncing off black curls. Sherlock grabs his hand as an answer, tugging him into the street. A day later their names are headlines again, as a couple this time.

Everything was good.

 

******************************

 

A trip to Tesco's is always more interesting when Sherlock is with him. Interesting and tiring, like trying to reign in an enthusiastic, genius child.

"They really shouldn't put this brand of cereal here, if they actually aim to actually sell anything in this aisle."

To a shopper who pushed John and didn't apologize, in a seemingly bad mood: "No need to take out the loss of your job out on random stranger. The media industry is tedious and judging by your _massive_ penchant for colleague affairs I'm surprised they didn't fire you sooner..."

Afterwards _John_ had apologized, and then ushered a smug Sherlock into the sauces aisle before the man could kill them.

They still have to get the milk, and then they would be done and they could go home and finally... Well, milk, remember the milk.

Sherlock is in the next aisle over, talking to himself it seems, and it causes John to smile like an idiot, heading over to the dairy section. He's about to pick up a carton of milk (he'll wrap it in a bag if he has to this time) when everything goes to hell.

There's an ear shattering explosion somewhere off to his left, where _Sherlock_ is, and John's mind jumps to Afghanistan so fast he would have fallen if he wasn't on the ground already, covered in a thin layer of plaster and debris. His vision is shifty, ears ringing from the explosion and the screams that are rising now, and it makes the world tip as he grabs at the handle to the dairy freezers, pulling himself to his feet.

" _Sherlock!_ " John yells into the smoke, stumbling towards the aisle he had been in. He's dimly aware that someone has just blown a hole in the side of Tesco's; the entire bakery section is demolished, and through the debris John can see what looks like sky. His mind is flashing through memories; mines in the battlefield, the explosion at 221B, the 'great game', and then to a very non-explosive memory, a memory of bloody sidewalks and blood soaked curls and cold pulses. He will not lose him again.

" _Sherlock_ ," he calls again, but it comes out as a gasp followed by heaving coughs, the smoke overwhelming everything. Through it all he can see partially collapsed shelves of merchandise, people lying on the floor dead or injured. He spots a shadowy black figure crumpled against the wall, long and gangly, and as he nears it he can identify curly black hair.

"Sherlock—Sherlock are you okay?" he gasps as he overturns him, the déjavù heavy in his chest as he starts heaving him towards the exit, thanking all those years in the military because Sherlock is   
_not_ light.

He makes it as far as the automatic doors before he collapses next to Sherlock, on his elbows and stomach, trying to see if he was even _alive_.

There's a light, quick pulse that makes John almost collapse in relief. His breathing is shallow but steady, no obvious wounds or bleeding, although he might have suffered a concussion in the fall. Sherlock comes to just as John is finishing up, just as the wail of sirens can be heard from a distance. He raises his arm up to brush at John's face, eyes clear and worried.

"John..." 

"Shh.. You'll be okay. Does anything hurt? Headache? Sherlock?" It doesn't even look like the detective is paying attention to anything John is saying. His hand drops from his cheek and go down into the effort to pull himself into a sitting position, leaning against the glass panels of the doors.

"John... It was Moran, oh I've been stupid, _stupid_ , I never should have returned until—"

"Stop, wait a minute Sherlock, you are staying right here with me and, wait, who the hell is Moran?" he's leaning slightly over Sherlock now, confusion and anxiety warring for dominance in his head.

Sherlock stops rambling and looks at John, eyes piercing. "This is my fault." he begins, sighing. "Remember how the last three years I've been dismantling Moriarty's web? The last mission I was on was to kill Moran, Moriarty's second in command. There had been an explosion; entire building demolished and I had thought... I should have made sure he was dead but then Mycroft called and he said that you had tried to... to jump off of St. Bart's and I just... Stopped playing the game."

John swallows. They haven't exactly talked about how Sherlock's death affected John, about the depression and the suicidal tendencies. They also hadn't talked about Sherlock's time as a full time assassin in those past three years, because that had been the past and what mattered was that they were happy now.

Except now the past was catching up. And for the first time, Sherlock didn't want to play the game.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading   
> Please leave feedback :)

**Author's Note:**

> Please leave feedback and tell me what you'd like to happen :)


End file.
